


Upon the Uses of Dogs

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Baker Street, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Fluff, Gen, John Watson is a Saint, POV John Watson, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Shippy Gen, Short One Shot, Story: The Adventure of the Creeping Man, Whiskey & Scotch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 01:03:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14297373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: “You will excuse a certain abstraction of mind, my dear Watson,” said he. “Some curious facts have been submitted to me within the last twenty-four hours, and they in turn have given rise to some speculations of a more general character. I have serious thoughts of writing a small monograph upon the uses of dogs in the work of the detective."After "The Creeping Man," Holmes' work on the uses of dogs takes a concrete turn...





	Upon the Uses of Dogs

Our sitting-room at Baker Street has beheld many strange sights. But upon opening the door that afternoon in the autumn of 1903, I found myself impelled to inhale deeply before speaking.

“Holmes!” I pitched my voice to carry over the clamor. 

He removed the particolored spaniel that was licking his face and sat up, albeit with some difficulty.

“Mercer couldn’t just leave them there, Watson,” said my friend, rather breathlessly.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Where?”

“Commercial Street — oh! There’s a good dog…” This was a perfectly nonsensical observation, as the creature addressed had begun toddling towards the fire, rescued in the nick of time by one long-fingered hand. With his other hand, Holmes was fondling whichever of the animals between his legs was momentarily successful in their struggle for dominance. “You wouldn’t have them bred for dog-fighting.” Holmes’ tone was pathetically plaintive.

“No,” I said, crossing to the tantalus; “I would not. But neither would I have us responsible for five — no, good heavens, six — spaniels!”

“But we might keep one,” rejoined Holmes hopefully. And at that, I confess, I began to laugh.

“Sherlock Holmes,” said I, “you are a sentimental fraud.” He opened his mouth. “No! No protests; you have not a leg to stand on.”

“I cannot stand at all,” he grumbled, “just at present.” I handed him a large whiskey and soda, and made up my own.

“What shall we do with them?”

Holmes twinkled up at me. “This one,” he said, gesturing with the tumbler towards one slumbering on his knee, “might do well with the Lestrade family, I thought. The Wigginses, too, would happily take a dog; Billy has said that his brother’s children have been begging for one. You know better than I the preferences of the Phelps household, but there is a possibility there. Also,” he added, “I thought Mrs. Ronder might like a companion.”

“You have worked it all out, then.”

“Give me some credit, Watson, for applying the principles of deductive reasoning to an unusual situation.” With a slight groan he lay back again under the onslaught of the brown-and-white one. It remained uncommonly intent on licking his chin, and anything else it could reach above his cravat, now hopelessly disarranged.

I sighed. “That leaves the sixth,” I said.

“It does leave the sixth.” He spoke indistinctly. Incommoded, surrounded by disorder, he was extraordinarily at his ease, his lean face showing its lines in uncommon mirth. I moved to rescue his abandoned whiskey from the clumsy investigations of his affectionate companions.

“I had been wondering,” I confessed, “what to get you for your fiftieth birthday.”

His smile, rare and radiant, was my reward.


End file.
